


keyframe

by Ingi



Category: Free!
Genre: I Don't Even Know, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Light Angst, M/M, POV Matsuoka Rin, POV Second Person, Post-Episode: s02e03 Butterfly of Farewell, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-24 08:43:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13210128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ingi/pseuds/Ingi
Summary: "There are two types ofmen," Haru says, in what unmistakably is Coach Sasabe's exact pronunciation, "thosestrengthenedby love, and thoseweakenedby it."





	keyframe

**Author's Note:**

> *sighs into the eternity* I had a headache and was trying to watch the second season, and then Coach Sasabe decided to get philosophical. And I lapped it all up, apparently.

Haru sits with you, cross-legged on the edge of the pool, skin still glistening, because the only way to have him so close to a body of water without having him throw himself at it is to let him have a swim beforehand.

He has been even less enthusiastic about the competition than usual, which perhaps shouldn't worry you —you have learned how to measure his moods by how much he allows himself to be swayed by your own drive to win; losing by five miliseconds isn't a cause for concern, not like losing by ten would be—, but it does. You still try not to stare, not because he would notice, but because he wouldn't.

"Coach Sasabe said something," Haru suddenly speaks.

You rest your hands on the tiles and sigh, getting ready for an evening wasted in the futile exercise that is pulling words from Haru, who only ever speaks fluently when he swims. Years ago, when you were both children, you used to think that if you could just learn that language, catch the subtleties of it as well as what was loudly proclaimed, notice the undertones, you would know how to reach Haru out of water.

You used to be so innocent.

"Did he now?" you ask Haru, already bored, tired of playing this game.

"Yes."

"What was it?"

"There are two types of _men_ ," Haru says, in what unmistakably is Coach Sasabe's exact pronunciation, "those _strengthened_ by love, and those _weakened_ by it."

It doesn't sound like something Haru would typically dwell on, but the truth is, it's been a long time since you could confidently say you know him. It's been a long time since you could confidently say _anything_ —it all started with a times board that was lying to you, until it turned out you were the one lying, to yourself and to your coaches, to your father's ashes and the memory of Haru, to everyone in everything that mattered—.

"So what?" you push, even as you stand up.

It's getting late and this is going nowhere, as usual. The tiles are freezing now, and this is about the limit of your patience, not that great to begin with.

You offer your hand to Haru, but he doesn't take it, so you turn your back on him and make your way to the door.

"Rin," he calls, and that's enough to make you stop, just for a moment.

You have never heard his voice like this. A fraction less frozen than usual, yes —those are the best moments, when you can almost tell yourself that you have finally touched him in some way—, but not this slight tremble under the words, like something finally _matters_. He sounds like he does not know where he's standing, for once. You're fluent enough in Haru-speak to know that means that he's afraid, and so you are afraid, too, because you were not the one to make him so.

You turn your head, look back over your shoulder. Haru, half of his body shifted towards you, immediately meets your eyes with his own, unreadable, terrifying.

"I don't know which type I am."

 

 

 

Missed practices. Low-intensity training. Distracted by the shape of him under the water, your own futile efforts to make him laugh. _Relays aren't that good for Olympics either way, Rin_ , and Sousake knows best. Too much mackerel. A sakura tree and a bunch of bricks that should mean nothing, but they do. _Are you making friends in Australia_ , your grandmother, when she still bothered sending letters, and how to explain that nothing would ever beat what you had lost. Crying and crying and crying and crying. No joy in victory. _Rin Rin Rin Rin_.

 

 

Your time when you compete against each other. Water, flowing just right as you moves, like it knows. Wet skin. _Swim with me_ , and he would never have before. A pool filled with sakura blossoms. Hands reaching out. Your mind calm, your heartbeat steady —until he touches you, always until he touches you, or until his lips twitch in that half-attempt at a smile—. _You can do it_ , he the only one you would believe. The same sakura tree and the same bunch of bricks, when you forget yourself. Crying and crying and he not letting your wrists go. _Rin_.

 

 

_Did you miss me, Rin?_

_I missed you._

_You are my best friend._

_If you win, it'll mean something._

_You mean something._

_If you lose-_

_I'll swim with you. You're always swimming with me._

_Catch up, Rin._

_Here, take my hand._

_I think of you even when I'm in the water, and there's nothing else in the world, and I could be anything._

_Don't let go._

 

These are the things that he will not say, because he's Haru.

He will say nothing at all.

 

 

 

You walk back and you sit with him again, pressed against him from shoulder to elbow. You're expecting him to move, but he doesn't, only watches you in total silence, having had his say, waits for an answer you're not certain you can give him. So you do something else.

"Why does it matter?" you say. The tiles are colder than before, but he's somehow warm where he's touching you and it's been so long since you have been close like this. "It's not like you're in love."

You think he's going to ignore you, as he's wont to do when it suits him —and you _hate hate hate_ —, but he's only quiet for a few moments more.

"We thought Rei was, when he kept buying sweets," he comments, "but he wasn't. It doesn't seem like a very reliable measure of love."

There is barely any space between your right hand and his left one. If he asks why you're shaking, you will tell him _It's freezing, idiot_ , and you will leave him here, and you will never talk of this again.

He will not ask.

"What, you're telling me you're in love with a girl now?" you say, sharply.

"No."

Another second of silence, this time both of your faults. You curl your fingers to make a fist, let the nails dig into your palm. The other option is dig them into the tiles, but you don't feel like getting your hands bloody, and yet another option is running, but you were never as good at that as you were with other things.

"When we were children-" you start, but his hand falls on yours and you choke on the words.

"Me too," he replies, calm.

You both stay there until the Sun goes down, and then some more.

And when you walk to the station, bending your heads to avoid sakura branches that are not yet in bloom, and your grip on him slowly weakens, he does not ask you not to let go. He is Nanase Haruka, after all.

He only holds your hand tighter.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Nope, I don't know what was up with the style either. Or the characters. It just happened.
> 
> keyframe: _n._ a moment that seemed innocuous at the time but ended up marking a diversion into a strange new era of your life—set in motion not by a series of jolting epiphanies but by tiny imperceptible differences between one ordinary day and the next, until entire years of your memory can be compressed into a handful of indelible images—which prevents you from rewinding the past, but allows you to move forward without endless buffering.


End file.
